The Prince of Roses
by Rion River
Summary: Sebastian is a papered District one boy living in the shadow of his siblings, who have been training for the games their entire lives. So when Sebastian is picked during the reaping, he discovers an opportunity for greatness. Let the Hunger Games...Begin.


The sound of a strong knock stirs me from my sleep. I hate that. I was having such a good dream. It had all the qualities a good dream would have, familiar and calming. I dreamt Pearla Davis was running her fingers through my hair while doing that little laugh she does. She is just about to whisper something into my ear, but I am losing the words as they fall from her mouth. And now it's gone. I allow myself to forget about the knocking at the door and slip back into my cocoon of warmth. The strong knock turns into a reinforced pounding that threatens to unhinge the door from its frame.

"Sebastian, Wake up!" shouts my brother.

I poke my head out of my cocoon and yell at the door, "What is so damn important!"

"Dad says to get your ass out of bed," snarls my brother, "Right now, Sebastian."

I hear his large boots stomp away on the hardwood floor. I thought would have at least a few more minutes. I usually get to sleep in later on the Reaping day.

A moan escapes me as I slide my body out of the bed. The cold air drains the warmth from my body as I shuffle my way to the bathroom, cursing under my breath. I splash some warm water on my face and examine myself in the mirror. My hair is not as bad as it usually is, but still requires a quick brush. Mom says it makes me look dashing, and so what if I agree. It barely touches my shoulders, but my dad says when I turn fifteen I'll have to cut it. I'd like to see him try.

I decide against changing my clothes and just put on a jacket over my night clothes and head downstairs. It's practically torture how cold it is inside this house. We could have it warmer in two seconds with a flip of a switch, but my father insists on having it this way. He's been doing this for weeks trying to condition us for the possibility the next games are held in the frozen tundra or something. I don't understand why my father makes us all suffer. It's not like we are all going to be thrown into the games. When I say condition us, I meant condition them. My older siblings.

As I walk into the kitchen I am assaulted by the smell of pancakes. Flash and Lavender are wearing their sweat suits and have helped themselves to stacks of pancakes and eggs. By the size of Flash's pit stains, I can tell they have been up for hours training. I am the last to arrive at the table but that hasn't stopped them from eating without me. Sitting at the head of the table is my father. My father is a sleight man whose strength is that of a man twice his size. His sharp nose makes him look younger than he is.

"The chances of a tribute being chosen who is ready and willing are slim," my father address Flash as he takes a bite of his omelet, "So our only chance is that you win the open rumble this time."

"About the rumble_,_" questions my sister tentatively. "You said you have your answer today"

Father picks up a pack of assorted vitamins lying beside his plate. He carefully tears the perforated edge and pours the contents into his hand

"Unless your name is chosen, you will wait until next year to volunteer," says my father before swallowing the vitamins with a sip of water.

Lavender purses her lips. I can tell she wants to argue, but we both know it's not wise to talk back to my father. Lavender shares my chestnut hair and bright blue eyes. Our similarities end there, because she is about as lively as a rock and has a gaze that could kill. We are three years apart and we have about as many conversations with each other as I do with President Snow. It wasn't always like that though. It's no surprise what caused her to change.

"Well if I do get picked out of that oversized fish bowl," she mocks as she fishes an orange seed out of her glass, "I'm not giving up my spot to anyone."

With a flick of a finger, she hurls the seed right into my brother's glass.

"Manners, Lavender" my dad recites after slapping my sister on the back of the hand.

"Who is the biggest boy in your class?" My mother asks Flash as she lays a plate of food in front of me.

"I am," says Flash with a grin as he flexes his biceps, "None of those suckers stand a chance when I step into the ring."

"That's what you thought last time" cites my sister.

"I lost because Cecile Hawthorne was a no good, dirt licking rat," snaps Flash.

"Cecile Hawthorne got exactly what was coming to him," said my father as he dabs the corners of his mouth with his napkin.

A long silence fell over the table. Except for the sound of silverware scrapping plate, no one made a sound.

"Nobody's gonna to stop me this time," says my brother breaking the silence with an voice of certainty.

Flash turned eighteen a month ago and this is his last chance to be chosen for the games. He tried to volunteer last year when some thirteen year old kid's name was picked, but he lost the volunteer spot to Cecile Hawthorne after Cecile dislocated Flash's knee during the open rumble. Our father paid a fortune to get Flash all the right surgeries, but I still hear his knee pop every once in a while. If it still gives him pain, he never lets it show. Cecile ended up dying on the first day of the games when a girl from district 7 took an axe to his throat.

"Can someone please pass the salt?" I ask. I notice only after I speak how rough my voice sounds.

Lavender passes the salt without lifting her gaze from her plate.

"It must be nice to sleep the day away," says Flash as his gapping mouth can't seem to stay shut when it has food inside it.

"Well it is a national holiday, so yeah," I say with a tone, "it is nice."

"Celebrate, my ass." He says as bits of food fly out of his mouth.

I expect my father to give him grief about is poor manners, but I see that he doesn't. I shoot a glance at my father. His silence is all the permission I need to lay into Flash.

"I'm pretty sure prospective tributes are expected to chew with their mouths closed," I say as I brush bits of egg debris off on my sleeve, "Capitol citizen might mistake you for a wild beast and put you down."

"Like you would know the first thing about what it means to be a tribute, sissy boy," says Flash with a snort.

Now he's pissing me off. I'm not as big a Flash but I could hold my own against him. Years of being forced to wrestle him, has kept me wise to the way he fights. I wonder how irate he would be after a salt shaker to the head.

"I know a tribute form District one should be a least be able to hold a conversation without grunting" I say.

"Why don't you go brush your golden locks, mama's boy!"

"Shut up you imbecile!"

"ENOUGH," barked my father slamming his fist onto the table, "I will not sit here and listen to you bicker about nonsense!"

He somehow manages to be threatening and keep his refined demeanor at the same time.

"Go get ready, all of you." He says excusing us from the table leaving him to finish his meal.

I storm back upstairs because I can't tolerate the echo of Flash's brainless banter any longer. They have been training for the games since they were twelve. I was never allowed to begin training because my mother refused, saying she couldn't bear sending all her children to the games. To the rest of my family, I am just a weak, lazy child whose only value is the salary I bring in from my job. Because Lavender and Flash train most days, I am left to spend most of my days mixing and testing perfume that we sell to the capitol. It doesn't help that I come home most days smelling like a bucket of roses.

I shove my head into my pillow and try my best to fall back asleep but it is useless, I am still fuming. I hear a knock at the door, petite and slow.

"Sebastian," My mother says opening the door, "are you decent?"

"Yeah, come in," I say without lifting my head from the pillow.

She lays sit down next to my head and brushes some stray strands of hair from my face.

"You know Flash is very nervous about today," she says coolly, "they both are."

"Yeah, right" I say unconvinced.

"This is not a game, Sebastian." She says sternly, "your brother may very well go on to become a tribute. You wouldn't want the last words you say to him to be 'dick head'"

I let out a laugh and prop myself up, looking straight into her eyes. All this frank talk of death is not very funny at all.

"They are choosing to do this." I say slowly

Tears begin to form in my mothers eyes. I know immediately I shouldn't have brought it up. I go soft in the heart and want to make everything better. Nothing makes me feel worse than seeing her in distress.

"There is nothing I can say to stop them," she says mournfully, "It's all they know."

I want to argue this, but I know she's right. They have been programmed to want nothing other than to become victors. I blame my father for brain washing my sister, for turning my brother into a killing machine. Maybe the death of his children will turn on a light in his head.

"The best we can hope for is that your brother does his best and emerges the victor." My mother says as she wipes her eyes with her sleeve.

"He is the strongest boy in school" I say trying to reassure her.

She gives me a smile and kisses me on the forehead. A look of excitement springs forth and is followed quickly by a little hoot.

"I almost forgot." She says as she lays down a garment bag on my lap, "for the Reaping."

I hadn't noticed it when she first sat down. The bag seems an older version than I've seen used at the factory. I unzip the bag and pull out a deep purple tunic made of a fabric I am not familiar with. It looks like velvet but feels more durable. Embedded in the shoulders are large golden gems that get progressively smaller as they run down the length of the arm. Attached to the hanger is a brown leather belt and treated leather gloves. I lift the outfit up against my body and examine it in the mirror.

"It was your uncle's when he was about your age," my mother says quietly, "You went through a growth spurt this last year and I think you can finally fit into it."

"This is so….majestic," I say trying to find the right word, feeling maybe I chose poorly, "why have I never seen Flash wear this?"

My mother shakes her head, "Your brother is too bulky. Besides, I knew only you would appreciate it."

She is right, the tunic and pants are a slim cut. Flash would tear this up trying to fit into it.

"Thank you" I say graciously

I take a closer inspection of the gloves. They seem worn in, but in very good condition. It must have been the treatment on the leather.

"Is that for the Reaping?"

I turn to see my sister standing in the doorway. She is already in her Reaping dress. It's been the same since she was twelve. Alterations have been made of course, but it has always been a simple white dress with a golden sash and a feather perched out of her braid. She has a look in her eye I haven't seen before. Her eyes are glued on the Tunic. Coming from District 1, we see every piece of extravagant clothing made. All of it is made for the capitol citizens though; rarely do we ever own any of it.

"Yes" I say

She walks over and feels the fabric in her hands. She runs her hand along the gems embedded in the shoulder. I study her face trying to memorize the expression on her face.

"It's beautiful" she says finally, "you'll surely make an impression."

For a few moments, we just gaze at our reflections in the mirror.

"You should put that on," Lavender adds before exiting , "Dad says were leaving for the town square in five minutes."


End file.
